


Mirror, Mirror

by mickie



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Drug Use, M/M, Mythical Beings & Creatures
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-29
Updated: 2020-03-29
Packaged: 2021-02-28 04:54:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22948138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mickie/pseuds/mickie
Summary: After the rooftop Sherlock works on cases for Mycroft and the Yard, misses his lover, Jim, and uses too many mind altering substances.  The latest cases that Mycroft has given him have been mind-numbingly inane and Sherlock needs to escape.TW: drug useThis story is now complete.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & James Moriarty, Sherlock Holmes/Jim Moriarty
Comments: 5
Kudos: 24
Collections: Sherlock Challenge





	1. Look At Yourself

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fabricdragon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fabricdragon/gifts).



> This is my February 2020 entry for the Sherlock Challenge on Tumblr. The prompt is **mirror**.

**Mirror, Mirror**

Sherlock staggered into 221B and slammed the door shut. “Fuck Mycroft and his bloody cases,” he growled while looking around for a note from John. Eventually he found it, confirmed that it was that evening’s note, and read it. John had a date with MelissaW- an improvement over MelissaS and KateB- and then he was taking an overnight shift at the hospital. Sherlock was sure that he’d be able to finish the case without any social interactions.

It was a Yard case and nothing related to Moriarty’s network as was claimed for most of the cases that he was given. Sherlock knew that his brother had him doing government work, either directly or through the Yard, and he didn’t care. It kept him busy and his mind relatively occupied. After his lover killed himself on the rooftop, nothing held much meaning for him. 

Jim had become ridiculously jealous over his friendship with John. The situation had escalated after what happened at the pool even though Jim had claimed it had been _just a joke_. Mycroft had gotten involved and promised to smooth things out. Everything had gone to hell instead and culminated in Jim’s death. Sherlock tried not to think about it anymore and focused on whatever cases he could find, the treats Mrs. Hudson made for him, and the compounds which both sharpened his mind and numbed the pain.

After hanging up his coat and retrieving a small bag of white powder from one of the front pockets, he went to the bedroom and opened the bottom drawer. Wrapped in a black velvet cloth was the last gift Jim had given him: an ornate carved silver and gem studded mirror and a Nepalese 1000 rupee note featuring Mount Everest on one side and an elephant on the other. Jim had despised his drug use but insisted that if Sherlock were to engage in it, he had to do it with style. Sherlock had tucked a razor between the frame and mirror.

Jim had written a note and taped it to the back of the mirror. Sherlock usually looked at it before starting and smiled at Jim’s flowing arabesque handwriting.

_Don’t do it._  
_I love you._  
_-JM_  
_-from Marrakesh Night Market_

_Would you like a mask?_  
_Would you like my mirror?_  
_You can look at yourself_  
_We can look at each other_  
_Or you can look at the face of your god._

Closing his eyes for a moment, Sherlock took a deep breath and forced all thoughts of Jim away. They always came back whenever he used. He set the mirror on his bed and made two long neat lines. Soon enough he felt the dopamine surge throughout his body. His focus sharpened and he no longer felt fatigued from not sleeping the past two nights. Now to analyze the data.

Mrs. Berkshire was suspected of murdering her husband, a peer, but there was only circumstantial evidence. She’d been out shopping two days ago. He had died of a heart attack. By the time Sherlock had gotten there, that morning, the police had already made a mess of the scene. She had no entanglements, debts, or failed businesses. Most people generally disliked her, and Mr. Berkshire’s family was convinced that she had done her husband in.

Sherlock looked at the mirror. He could almost see Jim in the reflection. _You’re missing something, Sherly_. Jim’s voice in his head. “You could just tell me,” Sherlock muttered under his breath and focused on the room where Mr. Berkshire had been found, a very ornate, immaculate sitting room. He’d been having mid-morning tea.

He thoroughly and meticulously scanned the images in his mind of the room and compared them to the crime scene photos taken by the police the day of death. They were nearly identical. Except for the body in the overstuffed chair. And dirt on the carpet near the chair. He shifted to his memories. No dirt by the chair. Someone had cleaned up even though they weren’t supposed to. Mrs. Berkshire was known to be obsessed with cleanliness. Sherlock chuckled as he thought of setting her up with Mycroft.

Sherlock focused on the dirt that had been by the chair. It was dark and not dried. A tiny broken blade of grass was in it. _The gardener_. He shifted to his memories from that morning. The dirt had been swept to a much more obvious place. The entryway. Someone was trying to frame the gardener and take advantage of him to do so.

He remembered seeing the gardener and analyzed all the details. Handsome. Neat appearance despite very worn clothes. Poor. _Clean_ shoes. Nervous and afraid. Sherlock smirked and pulled himself up to sit on the bed. Pulling his phone from his pocket, he stared at it for a moment before turning to look at the mirror. “Thanks, Jim,” he said and texted Lestrade.

Question the gardener. -SH

I actually think he’s being framed. -SH

He may have information. -SH

He then texted Mycroft.

Can you check the pharmacy records for the Berkshire family? -SH

NSAIDs, metformin, thiazolidinediones, dipeptidyl peptidase-4 inhibitors… -SH

Can you please email me this list? -MH

Calcium channel blockers, clonidine, moxonidine, digoxin, TNF inhibitors… -SH

I’ll send you everything. -MH

Sherlock chuckled. Mycroft was no fun.

Cyclophosphamide, doxorubicin, trastuzumab, sotalol, flecainide… -SH

Stop. Or I will find the most boring cases and give them to *you*! -MH

You’ll have a report by tomorrow afternoon. -MH

Sherlock smiled and then laid down again. Closing his eyes, he let his thoughts flow to happy times with Jim.

~~

Mrs. Berkshire was arrested for the murder of her husband. She’d been having an affair with the gardener and had convinced him to kill her husband with the hand hoe. He’d hesitated but eventually had gone into the house mid-morning. The man was dead already. Unsure of what to do, he’d fled back to his home. Mrs. Berkshire’s mother took digitalis and some of her pills had gone missing. Traces of the compound were found in Mr. Berkshire’s blood.

Sherlock celebrated by walking the streets of London the way he and Jim used to after a dinner at a nice restaurant.

*~*~*

( _a week later_ )  
“I hate this case,” Sherlock growled as he injected some heroin into his vein. The case was regarding the death of Lillian Davies, one of Sir Edwin’s PAs, at The Princess Grace Hospital. Sherlock couldn’t care less. While Sir Edwin was the head of MI6 and his PAs had significant clearance, a quick perusal of the facts led Sherlock to believe that there was no political motive involved. The case was mind numbingly inane and made worse by Mycroft’s constant badgering him over it’s supposed importance. Heroin would help.

After he finished, he carefully put his kit back together again neatly. Jim had always insisted on neatness. Thinking of his lover, he pulled out the mirror and, holding it close to his heart, laid down on the bed.  
Sherlock had finally begun to relax and sort through the exorbitant amounts of reports that Mycroft had provided when his phone chimed indicating a text from his brother. Fabulous. He picked up the phone. It wasn’t just one text from Mycroft but _five_. “Save me,” he muttered to the mirror as he set it next to him and read the messages.

How is the case coming? Have you solved it? -MH

It’s very important. Sir Edwin is important. -MH

“I know! You’re acting daft,” Sherlock yelled at the phone. “And it’s not.”

Ms. Davies passing is most unfortunate. -MH

She was working on numerous international cases and missions. -MH

This needed to be solved two hours ago. -MH

Sherlock felt a headache starting.

I’m working on it. -SH

Work faster. -MH

“You can’t rush perfection, you entitled supercilious busybody,” Sherlock yelled at his door. He had sent John to the hospital to obtain their list of fatalities for the past year as well as for the staff involved in Ms. Davies’s care. He wasn’t going to come to a conclusion until he’d seen those reports.

Choosing to not answer his brother, he shut off his phone. Unwanted interruptions wouldn’t help at the moment. Closing his eyes, he made himself comfortable on the bed and tried to process the information faster. It wasn’t working. He saw permutations in the data and explored novel analyses that could be applied but his mind was slow and sluggish.

“Fuck,” he swore and pulled himself up to sitting again. “Not working.” He pushed himself off the bed and took two uneasy steps to his dresser. After some rummaging in his top drawer, he found his newest stash of cocaine. “It’s your fault,” he shouted at the mirror. “You should be here helping me, you selfish bastard.” He laughed bitterly as he made two lines on the mirror and quickly inhaled them. That should fix his slow mind. “You probably know who did it.”

Sherlock hid the cocaine and then looked at Jim’s message before wrapping the mirror in its velvet cloth and lying down again. For a while everything was working perfectly. His mind was processing the myriads of information at a rapid pace. And then Sherlock’s hands started shaking. And his mind started getting stuck in feedback loops. He couldn’t focus no matter how hard he tried. Bloody hell.

More heroin would help. It would calm him down again and with the cocaine, his mind would function optimally. Sherlock was meticulous about making the solution and injecting himself. His hands were shaking more but his mind was calming. Taking a deep breath, Sherlock put everything away except for the mirror.

The room was starting to spin. Sherlock sat on the bed and forced his mind to bring up the data from the case. It was also spinning. And dancing. A waltz. His stomach lurched and he cursed that he didn’t have any water on his nightstand. Taking a deep breath, Sherlock tried to steady himself. Turning the mirror around he tried to read the words. They seemed to float in the air and spin as though captured by a whirlwind. But Sherlock knew the words by heart and he could hear Jim repeat them in his mind.

_Would you like a mask?_  
_Would you like my mirror?_  
_You can look at yourself_  
_We can look at each other_  
_Or you can look at the face of your god._

Sherlock staggered to his feet. “I love you,” he murmured, crumpling to the floor. The mirror slipped from his hand and shattered into pieces.


	2. Wrong Day to Die

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock gets an unexpected visitor.

**Wrong Day to Die**

The sound of glass shattering reverberated in his mind and forced Sherlock to open his eyes. Dazed, he stared at the broken mirror and tried to determine why he was on the floor. Something was not right but he couldn’t quite find his thoughts, much less collect them. And why were the pieces of glass starting to... smoke?

Exhaling slowly, Sherlock watched, mesmerized. _I’m dying_. That thought felt like a certainty and a relief. Jim’s death had left him just as shattered as the mirror and while Mycroft meant well, his efforts were slowly suffocating Sherlock. He closed his eyes and hoped it wouldn’t be painful.

“Get up, Sher~lock.” Jim’s voice intruded in his mind. He had such a musical voice with exotic intonations. Sherlock adored Jim’s voice. It must be a dream. Languidly opening his eyes, he saw Jim’s bespoke Italian leather shoes. Dream. Sherlock tilted his head upward and blinked. Jim Moriarty was sitting on his bed. Completely impossible.

Closing his eyes again, Sherlock groaned and let his head drop back to the floor. “Get up, Sherlock,” Jim insisted. 

“Mmmm…” Sherlock felt the usually elusive sleep encroaching on his thoughts. He heard Jim stand and take a step toward him.

"No. Sorr~rry... Wrong day to die!" Jim said with a slightly more musical voice than the previous time he’d used that phrase. 

Sherlock felt himself hoisted in the air and then set on his feet. His stomach lurched, his head whiplashed backwards then forward, and his arms flailed about. They finally found Jim and he grabbed the man’s shoulder to steady himself. “You’re... alive,” he stammered.

Jim made a wry exaggerated expression. “Or something of that sort.”

Sherlock blinked again and then pulled Jim close. “I love you,” he murmured. He didn’t care how stupid and emotional it sounded. This was probably just a dream and it didn’t matter. “Don’t… don’t ever leave me.” He smiled as he remembered more of Jim’s words at the pool. “You just can’t.”

“I won’t, pinky promise,” Jim said but then spun Sherlock toward the door. Sherlock wondered how Jim had gotten so strong and if Jim would let him nap. “But you need to walk now, darling. We have to walk this thing off. You took too much.”

“Any amount... is too much.. for you,” Sherlock said as he was half pushed toward the door.

“And I’m always right,” Jim stated. “Now walk.”

“Where?” Sherlock asked. All he really wanted to do was curl up in Jim’s arms and sleep.

“Doesn’t matter,” Jim answered. “You need to walk and talk. But I’m taking you to the hospital, just in case.”

“I’d… rather… no,” Sherlock mumbled as they somehow made their way down the stairs. Sherlock didn’t think that he’d actually taken steps but soon enough, he was outside the door of 221B without his coat and scarf. And then James was holding him up and they were walking. Somewhere. Jim had told him where but Sherlock didn’t remember. Jim spoke as they walked. Every word and phrase made sense in the moment but then it vanished from Sherlock’s mind.

Sherlock remained silent and let Jim guide him down one street, then another for what seemed an eternity. He had no recollection of any of the streets but eventually he started feeling a bit more cognizant. Jim was talking about his favorite recipe for apple dumplings and something about using the right kind of cinnamon. “I took too much,” he said quietly.

“You did,” Jim agreed. “I don’t want you to take anything ever again, Sherlock Holmes.” Sherlock remained silent. “Promise me.” Sherlock didn’t see how he could honestly make that promise and continued to remain silent. “I _pinky promised_ you that I’d never leave,” Jim said firmly, with a tone of voice that brooked no disagreement. “You better promise me that you won’t.”

Sherlock laughed. Despite Jim’s serious tone, his lover always lightened his heart. “I can try…?”

“No. Trying is for stage props and goldfish,” Jim said, frowning. “Promise, no more drugs.” Sherlock gave Jim his best puppy dog eyes and almost stumbled. Jim growled. “Or I’ll leave.”

“Will you help me?”

“Of course.”

“Pinky promise,” Sherlock said tiredly and yawned. A thought niggled at his mind. “Why are you here? _How_ did you get here?”

“Magic.”

“Real answer, please.”

“The mirror,” Jim answered.

That made little sense to Sherlock even with all the drugs in his body. He thought about it for a while and then decided not to question it until later. Much later. “I thought you were dead?” he finally said. That seemed like a safe question. There would be a clever Moriarty answer which he might or might not follow but it would make sense.

“I was.”

Sherlock didn’t think that was a very clever Moriarty answer in the slightest. “You were dead. I forced myself to examine your body.”

Jim gasped dramatically. “And I missed getting felt up?!”

“I didn’t enjoy it,” Sherlock growled and clamped his jaw shut. Perhaps that had come out too angry and he wished that he could apologize but the words wouldn’t come. He was angry at Jim for leaving even though he supposed he could understand why Jim had. They walked silently for a few more minutes. Sherlock couldn’t tell where they were but he trusted Jim in this. “Why are you even here?”

“You needed me,” Jim said softly. “I came back to keep you alive and get you to the hospital. You’re starting to sound better.”

“How did you know?” Sherlock supposed he wouldn’t get an answer that would make sense.

“The mirror.”

Sherlock closed his eyes for a moment and stumbled but Jim caught him. “And you got here with the mirror,” he said, repeating Jim’s previous answer.

Jim nodded. “Yes. _I_ don’t use a broomstick.”

Sherlock snickered. That was a typical Jim answer. “You should,” he quipped playfully.

“I don’t drive and there isn’t enough room for a chauffeur.”

“I don’t understand; it all doesn’t make sense,” Sherlock said.

“Does it matter?”

“Of course it does,” Sherlock stated. “I want to know.”

“When you wake up tomorrow, it’s all going to be a drug induced dream.”

“Tell me anyway,” Sherlock said and yawned. “I like hearing you speak.” He frowned as he realized he’d said that out loud. “I mean…”

“Oh, shut it, Sherlock,” Jim said almost sweetly, pulling him a little closer and giving him a quick kiss on the cheek. “I understand.” Sherlock rolled his eyes. “You really want the truth?”

“Yes, of course, don’t be ridiculous.”

Jim laughed. “Fine. I’m a jinn. I have a marvelous set of powers and I can't be killed in this world no matter what you do to me. After I shot myself, I went home.” 

Sherlock was silent and then looked at Jim quizzically. He’d heard and understood. Jim was right; he was feeling better. It was too bad that Jim’s words were utterly illogical. “Jinn. Magical powers. Can’t be killed. Makes perfect sense,” he said dryly. Jim had also been right that it would all seem like a drug fuelled dream later. _Now_ as well. “You came through the mirror?”

Jim smirked. “Did you like the little touch with the smoke? I did it just for you.”

“I thought it was supposed to be a whirlwind,” Sherlock said. “And I’m supposed to rub the magic lamp.”

“Tsk, in 221B with all that clutter,” Jim said. “That would have been dangerous. Imagine one of your scalpels whizzing through the air uncontrolled.”

Sherlock chuckled and this time _he_ pulled Jim close. “What happens now?”

“We’re almost at the hospital,” Jim replied. “I’m sure Mycroft will intervene and not have you sent to rehab but you can’t forget. You promised me. No more drugs. Ever.”

“Pinky promise…”


	3. The Face of Your God

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock gets out of the hospital and reunites with Jim.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks everyone for reading. This has been a slightly different take on my 'Jim is a fae' stories and I hope you enjoyed it. This month's (March) challenge is almost done and it is _not_ a multi chapter story so there's a small chance that I'll get caught up.

**The Face of Your God**

Sherlock awoke to the sound of Mycoft fiddling with his pocket watch. Blinking a few times, he took in his surroundings and determined that he was in a hospital. All things considered, he didn’t feel horrible. Memories flooded his mind and he scanned the room. No Jim. He exhaled slowly with disappointment.

“Oh, good,” Mycroft said primly. “You’re awake. You need to stop doing this, Sherlock. It’s getting old.”

Sherlock scrunched his eyes shut with dismay. “Sod off, Mycroft,” he said hoarsely. His mouth was dry, his throat felt scratchy, and he was in no mood to deal with his brother.

“I repeat,” Mycroft continued. “You need to stop doing this or one of these days, there will be no coming back from it.” He put his pocket watch away. “What were you thinking?”

“May I have some water?” Sherlock asked.

Mycroft approached the bed stand and picked up a glass. “You can have ice chips,” he said dryly. Sherlock frowned. “If you behave,” Mycroft continued. “I’ll see about sneaking in a cup of tea for you.”

Sherlock smirked and sucked on a few chips before speaking. “That would be appreciated. I can’t function without tea.”

“And the caffeine will have you feeling better as well,” Mycroft added. Sherlock chewed silently on his ice chips. Mycroft looked like he wanted to say more but then sat down.

“I was working on one of your cases,” Sherlock said when he finished and set the cup aside.

“And?” Mycroft asked crisply.

Sherlock was about to give Mycroft his standard reply about euphoria, tranquility, heightened cognitive processes, along with targeted focus that enabled him to analyse data faster and solve Mycroft’s cases much more efficiently and pleasantly. His thoughts flew to what had transpired after he’d overdosed. He also thought of the mirror and the words that Jim had written on the back of it.

 _We can look at each other_  
_Or you can look at the face of your god_.

Sherlock realized that he’d chosen to look at his god and that god was Morpheus, the winged demon, god of dreams. He should have been looking at Jim. Even if he wasn’t altogether sane, Jim loved him. He looked up at Mycroft and smiled sadly. “I missed Jim,” he explained. Mycroft’s eyes widened and Sherlock could see the pieces falling into place for his brother. “I want to join him.”

Mycroft inhaled sharply. “He was an international criminal, a murderer, and a terrorist, Sherlock.”

“Those words could be used to describe most everyone in MI5 or MI6,” Sherlock stated. “He was just better at it and without the shrouds of government to hide behind. We’re both partially complicit in his death.”

“No,” Mycroft said firmly. “He was insane.”

“No,” Sherlock argued. “He’s different and certainly not goldfish normal but neither one of us is either.”

“He’s dead now,” Mycroft stated. “If you need help or grief counselling, I will be happy to find you a qualified therapist. There’s nothing to be done about the matter.”

“He’s not dead,” Sherlock said, thinking of Jim returning to 221B and then walking him to the hospital. Jim loved him. That certainty comforted Sherlock. “He walked me to the hospital.”

“He’s quite dead,” Mycroft countered. “I have no idea how you somehow managed to walk yourself to the hospital with the amount of drugs in your system but there was no one else with you.

“Jim was with me.”

“Per the CCTV cameras.”

Sherlock frowned. He couldn’t possibly have dreamed that Jim had come back. He couldn’t have imagined the promises that they’d made each other and the love that he’d felt from and for the other man. “Jim forced me to walk to the hospital and we were arm-in-arm for all of it.”

Mycroft rose, pulled his phone from his jacket pocket, and brought up videos. They were of Sherlock, walking _alone_ with an unsteady gait. Sherlock took the phone and stared at the images. There was no one with him but observing his steps, how he walked, the position of his arms, it was patently obvious that Jim was there, albeit invisible. “Whatever,” he said and handed the phone back to Mycroft. “It doesn’t matter.” He couldn’t see providing any explanation that would convince his brother and no reason to convince him. “How soon can you get me out of here?”

~~

( _two weeks later_ )  
Sherlock set the kettle to boil water for tea. Mycroft had refused to get him out of the hospital until he was completely through withdrawal and had taken a few days of rehab classes. Sherlock had been simultaneously annoyed, bored, and disgruntled. He’d missed Jim horribly and he’d resorted to planning creative ways to murder the staff even though he knew that they meant well. Bless their hearts. 

That day, after driving him home, Mycroft had refused to leave the freshly cleaned 221B until he’d gotten repeated promises from Sherlock that he would call or text if he needed food, dessert, felt unwanted and had improper cravings, wanted cases, or could use brotherly companionship. Sherlock had somehow managed to not vomit through the entirety of it and eventually Mycroft had gone home. But it felt surreal to be alone in his apartment.

Glancing into his bedroom, Sherlock noted that it had also been cleaned and cleared. Curse his brother. He guessed that Mycroft had found all of his stashes and removed them. Probably for the best. It would make breaking his promise to Jim a little bit harder. Even though he’d fooled Mycroft and all the hospital personnel into thinking that he was better, he guessed that a relapse was inevitable.

After preparing a mug of tea, he walked into the bedroom and noticed that his mirror lay on top of his bed. Intact. He exhaled slowly. Mycroft would not have had it fixed. He picked it up and drew his fingers over it. Relief flooded through him. There were no signs of damage or any indication that it had ever been broken. Jim’s writing was still on the back. Maybe he had dreamed of shattering it.

Another less pleasant thought crossed his mind. What if he’d dreamed of Jim? What if it had _all_ been a drug-fuelled hallucination? Sherlock scrunched his eyes shut for just a moment and imagined Jim holding him up as they had walked to the hospital. That had to have been real. They’d made promises to each other. Jim had said that he loved Sherlock. It couldn’t have been his imagination.

Opening his eyes, Sherlock tapped the mirror gently. “Jim,” he whispered. “Are you there?” There was no response. Sherlock frowned and tapped a little harder. “Jim. You promised not to leave me and I haven’t seen you in two weeks.” He chuckled as he could almost see Jim rolling his eyes. Still nothing.

Sherlock sighed and set the mirror down next to him. Maybe it had been a dream… He sighed once more. And then, with a soft pop, Jim appeared next to him. Sherlock startled. “Don’t do that,” he grumbled.

“You sounded like you wanted me to hur~ry,” Jim said, sounding amused. “I was arguing with my favorite tailor.” Sherlock arched an eyebrow. Jim smirked and explained, “I’ve _acquired_ a bolt of hand-loomed, arabesque-patterned weave in black, purple, and gray silk and I want a _robe de chambre_ made. Haggling has to be part of everything so he doesn’t want to deprive me of that experience even though he knows that he’ll end up as a pair of crackows one of these days.”

“Crackows.” Sherlock laughed and then hugged Jim. “It was horrible. I missed you.” Jim kissed him slowly and caressed his shoulders. His fingers erased the past two weeks of being in the hospital, going through withdrawal, and everything that Mycroft had flung at him. It soothed parts of him that he hadn’t realized needed comfort.

“I missed you too,” Jim said when they finally pulled apart.

“Where do you go?” Sherlock asked. He’d thought of thousands of questions to ask Jim but hadn’t been sure where to start. This was as good a place as any.

“Does it matter?”

“Of course it does. I need to know.”

“Fine. I went home.”

“Which is where?”

“I live in a place called the City of the Barred Gate,” Jim answered. “It’s in a different universe or a different dimension. I’ve tried to determine its location with stars and planets but the skies aren’t the same as anywhere else so I simply have no idea. It exists.” He sighed longingly. “And it’s beautiful.”

“Have you always lived there?”

Jim shook his head. “No. I came from a small village in what is now County Kerry,” he said. “It was a very long time ago.” 

“How long?”

“Thousands.”

“Interesting. How did you get there? From here, this world, I presume.”

Jim smiled wryly and Sherlock could see that those memories were not pleasant. “I was seduced by a jinn and taken to the city. The city is a splendor but I lost everything in my life. All my immediate family were slaughtered for my crimes.”

“Crimes?” Sherlock asked although he could probably guess the answer and dreaded it.

“Homosexuality,” Jim said quietly, almost nonchalantly. “It didn’t matter that I was powerless to resist him. Magic and witchcraft were considered evil as well so there was no escaping blame or judgment.”

“But…” Sherlock frowned and his lips set angrily. Knowing that Jim rarely showed real emotions, he could guess how much his lover had suffered. “It’s not right.”

“It happened,” Jim said and shrugged while taking Sherlock’s hand in his. “After a while, I killed him properly and quite slowly.”

“Good,” Sherlock said. “But how did you become a jinn?”

“Crossing over to the city does it,” Jim explained. He held up his hand just as Sherlock was about to interrupt. “Something about the magic of the city does it.”

Sherlock found that thoroughly intriguing and wanted more details. He wanted to see the city. It sounded more fascinating than London. “Take me with you the next time you go,” he said and his eyes gleamed with excitement. “It sounds brilliant.”

“It is,” Jim said. “It’s incredible and it goes on forever. I haven’t explored all of it yet. Everyone has brass lanterns hanging on the streets and the scent of incense and spices fill the air.” He stared into Sherlock’s eyes. “And _no_. I’m not taking you across.”

“I want to explore it.”

“No, absolutely not, darling,” Jim said.

“I want to explore it with you.”

“You want to stay here and solve cases with Dr. Fuzzy Jumpers.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and shook his head. “I never chose John over you.”

“Johnny boy doesn’t share.”

“I think you’re the one that doesn’t share,” Sherlock said and then knew it was the truth when Jim smiled smugly and remained silent. 

After the rooftop Sherlock had finally realized that Jim was incredibly possessive and much to his surprise, it hadn’t bothered him. Jim wanted him for who he was, not for some ideal that others expected him to attain.

“You lose your humanity when you become a jinn,” Jim said softly.

Sherlock smirked and threw an old line at Jim. “I have been reliably informed that I don't have one.”

Jim chuckled, also remembering. “But we both know that's not quite true. As a matter of fact Sherlock Holmes, you have so much _heart_ and _humanity_ that it kills you.” Sherlock looked away. Jim continued, “I can’t take that from you. I just can’t.”

“What if I don’t want it anymore?”

“You’ll miss it and then the loneliness will turn you into a monster.”

Sherlock smiled and squeezed Jim’s hand with his. “But we can remind each other,” he said. “You promised and I’m holding you to that. If you take me across, we’ll always be together.” Jim seemed to ponder his words.

“ _You’re_ lonely.” Sherlock pulled Jim’s jacket off and then started unbuttoning his shirt.

“That’s cheating, Sher~ly,” Jim grumbled playfully.

“I know.” Sherlock continued undressing the man.

Jim pouted. “You know I can’t say no to you when you do this.”

“Obviously…” Sherlock started kissing every inch of Jim’s skin that he’d uncovered. 

They made love. Sherlock had missed the man more than he cared to admit. He tried to show Jim how much he wanted them to be together, especially after the bleariness of being apart. When they finished, Sherlock held him tightly, as though Jim would vanish if he didn’t.

Jim was silent for a moment, kissed Sherlock, then said, “Why don’t I make some more tea, we’ll get dressed, and then I’ll take you to the city.” Sherlock’s heart was filled with love and he kissed Jim back.


End file.
